


grab the cash and run

by Pidonyx



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album)
Genre: Established Relationship, Jet and Kobra are both there but I didn’t want to feel deceptive by tagging them as main characters, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), Scamming, THE KILLJOYS ARE NOT MCR, This is kinda weird tbh, v v spurred by me reading the Bonnie and Clyde wiki article last night for no reason, whats wrong baby is it that he/they again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pidonyx/pseuds/Pidonyx
Summary: First thing you should know is that most zonerunners agree: Tommy Chow Mein’s merchandise is overpriced.
Relationships: Fun Ghoul/Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 67





	grab the cash and run

**Author's Note:**

> i had so much fun writing this tbh.......it’s v much just a small thing for fun but i hope you all enjoy anyways and remember to be gay and do crime :P also this was my first time writing a killjoys fic that wasn’t entirely from poison’s perspective 🤪
> 
> title is from kiss the ring by my chemical romance

First thing you should know is that most zonerunners agree: Tommy Chow Mein’s merchandise is overpriced. For larger crews with extra carbons to spare and more mouths to feed, buying in bulk from Tommy is the smart financial decision, but for most crews the price isn’t worth the goods. As a result, individual merchants and market vendors get more business than one would think in the desert. Sometimes — if a crew is particularly thrifty or quick-witted or good at stretching their bank between paydays for the gang breadwinners — crews can even go for years in the desert without ever having to haggle at the Paradise Motel. On occasion, though, Tommy Chow Mein’s just can’t be avoided, whether it’s because the supply one needs is rare and Tommy carries  _everything_ _,_ or because one needs just too  _much_ of something to get it from a smaller seller. That doesn’t mean said thrifty ‘joys want to pay as much as Tommy will inevitably want for it.

The second thing you should know is this: as much freedom and life as the desert brings, it does have its few cons — beyond the obvious. One of those being that, with the best communication in the Zones can offer being radio transmissions and chatter, one can be famous in the desert without being instantly recognizable to everyone. If you get around, participate in firefights and races and hawk services for carbons, your face will be better known, especially so if it has a name to go with it that gets broadcasted on pirate stations and frequencies every other week. And still, there will be killjoys that, whether by their own self-isolation, or by dumb luck, have not seen even the most famous of Zone celebrities. Including, by no small feat, the Fabulous Four. Remember that.

*

Tommy Chow Mein doesn’t look up from his ‘zine when the tinny bell over the door chimes. Customers always come to him eventually. After a few solid minutes, though, when no one has come up to the counter, his instinctual need to protect his wares from theft kicks in and he cranes his neck to see over the jam-packed shelves. He is not concerned enough to leave his post behind the counter, though, because no one has ever actually stolen from Tommy Chow Mein and gotten away with it. Attempted thievery, though, comes with a ban from the store, and after enough of those Tommy chases killjoys brave enough to approach with such a stain on their record away from his stock and his shop with a broom that has enough sand crusting it into a solid mass that it could be qualified as a lethal weapon.

He doesn’t have to cast his eyes around for long before he spots the interlopers where they’re standing huddled with their heads close, talking quietly between each other, because the taller of the two has bright crimson hair, scooped back in a hot pink hair tie. Tommy clears his throat. “Can I help you find something?” He doesn’t bother to make his tone pleasant. People come to him out of necessity. He doesn’t need to grovel at their feet for business.

Red-hair turns, offering a megawatt grin. “Of course! C’mon, baby, gotta ask th’ nice man for help.” They tug their companion over to the ancient concierge desk acting as the checkout counter, leaning over it on their elbows. Their face is open and pleasant, eyes wide, dark lashes fanned over their cheeks when they look down to examine a chip in the lacquered wood, chewing on a pink lip absentmindedly. They’re contradictingly freckly and pale, a flush of sunburn on their nose. They look like a sucker, what with how ditzy and bubbly they’ve been so far, wearing every emotion on the rolled-up sleeve of the white linen button-up they’re wearing knotted over their jeans. Their partner looks a little less workable, giving Tommy a dubious look from under their long dark hair, but they also don’t look particularly threatening, given that they’re tiny and wearing a ridiculously large pink-and-orange sweater that would seem impractical for the desert if it weren’t for the fact that it’s such a loose knit that Tommy can see the black tank top they’re wearing underneath. Tommy raises a groomed eyebrow in return.

“You two got names?”

“Oh! Yes, ‘f course, sorry sir,” Red-hair beams again, freckled nose and round cheeks scrunching up. “‘M Dust Bunny, they/them ‘nless we’re friends, doll,” and they wink at that, giggling again right after. “An’ this ‘s my partner, Whip Clash, he/him.” Tommy raises his other eyebrow at Clash, who just raises both of his in return and smiles guilelessly. Bunny looks at Tommy with a little lost smile, round eyes cheerful. “We ran outta gas on Guano, walked ninety minutes here t’ get some, please tell me y’got fuel.” They chew at their thumbnail, forehead crinkling like it would be the saddest thing in the world if Tommy didn’t have gasoline for their ride.

Tommy huffs. He has everything, and a goddamn surplus of automobile fuel, but this ‘joy doesn’t need to know that if they don’t already, and they seem easy to play, willing to open their pockets for whatever Tommy asks from them. He taps a finger against his chin, pretending to think. “Think we might have some in the back,” he says, eventually. His tone is gruff, but Bunny’s face lights up like he just announced he was giving them a million carbons and change.

“Thank you,” they breathe, tangling a strand of bright vermilion around a paint-stained finger. “Could y’ bring ‘t out? We can pay whatever y’ need.” Now  _that’s_ music to Tommy’s ears. He nods curtly, mentally rolling his eyes when it makes Bunny simper even more, looking almost like they might start to cry with gratitude.

He fetches one of the smaller containers of gas from the back room of the shop, putting on a show of lugging it out in front and panting as he pretends to heave it onto the counter. Customers, especially the more sensitive or gullible ones, pay more when they think their request gave him trouble. Sure enough, Bunny’s round eyes go even rounder. “Thank you so much,” they say, chewing on their lip with concerned fervor. “Can I look at ‘t real quick, make sure ‘s the kind that’ll work with our car? If —“ they hastily brush at their hair like it’s a nervous tic. “If that’s no trouble for you, sir?”

Tommy shakes his head in the back of his mind. It’s too easy. “Of course,” he says, stretching his back and shaking out his hands for emphasis, not missing how Bunny’s eyes catch on the movement and their face falls further. They busy themselves with the container of gas, muttering to themselves, lifting it in their hands, inspecting it from every angle. It’s then that Tommy notices their short partner isn’t next to them anymore.

“Where’s your traveling companion?” He asks stiffly, narrowing his eyes. Bunny doesn’t look at him, running their fingers over their lower lip thoughtfully, still looking down at the gas canister in their hands.

“Clash went t’ see if there’s any food we could get t’ take with us. We’re on th’ road, y’see.” They run their fingers over the gasoline one more time, and Tommy’s just starting to wonder what there could possibly be to inspect on such a small container for such a long time when they set it back down with a decisive thump. “This ‘s perfect. We’ll take it. How much?”

“Twenty-five carbons.” The little thing is barely worth seven, but Bunny doesn’t seem to know Zone prices — or bartering, or supplies, or preparedness, or  _anything_ ,  really — very well and, well, Tommy knows an opportunity when he sees it. He feels just the tiniest scrap of guilt, though, when Bunny’s face crumples like wet cardboard.

“Oh,” they say in a small voice. They reach into the pocket of their jeans (which, Tommy notes, are remarkably dust- and sweat-free for someone who professed an hour-and-a-half walk up Guano to the Motel), pulling out a few crumpled bills and coins. They push the handful shyly across the counter, withdrawing their hand and wringing them together against their chest. “This ‘s all we have.”

Tommy rifles through it, dismayed to find that the meager pile only amounts to about five-and-a-quarter carbons. “I can’t accept this,” he says sharply. Bunny looks like they might really be on the verge of tears this time, eyes going shiny, lower lip trembling. They drop their chin to their chest, reaching a shaky hand out to scoop the small wad of carbons back towards them.

Tommy closes his eyes and turns his face towards the ceiling, taking a deep breath and letting it out. “Wait,” he says, teeth gritted. He sweeps the five-and-a-quarter into his hand, shoving the small gas can towards Bunny’s incredulous face. “I’ll take this. Just this once.”

If Bunny had looked grateful before, they look fucking incandescent at that. “Thank you, oh, you  _doll_ _,_ ” they gasp, snatching the gasoline from the counter and clutching it against their chest. They lean in, breathlessly fluttering light kisses on both of Tommy’s cheeks, practically dancing towards the door when they pull away, enormous smile splitting their pretty, innocent face in half. “Won’t forget it, Tommy! Baby, let’s motor!”

Tommy rolls his eyes, turning to neatly stack and store the cash away in the lockbox under the counter. He’s fitted the key in the lock, twisting it firmly and patting the top of the box when he hears the suspicious squeal of wheels outside.

Running out, he sees the famous Trans Am pulling away from the Paradise Motel, tires spinning and spitting up sand. Bunny is leant precariously out the backseat window, wearing a bright blue jacket now over their flirty button-up and waving the gasoline in one hand and a yellow raygun in the other.

“Thanks for the goods, Tommy!” Party Poison hollers, all innocence gone from their face, replaced with a shrewd expression and mischief in their eyes. Tommy can hear them cackling as the car tears off towards the main highway, and just like that, his blood runs cold, and he rushes inside. He lets out a howl of rage.

His store’s been ransacked. Hundreds of carbons worth of food, water, luxury goods, and oddly enough, the entire tiny stash of party supplies he stocks mostly just to have it — gone. Clash — or, Fun Ghoul, as it certainly had been — had smuggled it all out to their car when Tommy had been busy getting the gasoline for Bunny. Party Poison.  _Who just conned him out of paying full price for the gas as well._

Fuck a singular ban. The Fabulous Killjoys are banned from Tommy Chow Mein’s for  _ life . _

*

Poison laughs breathlessly as he falls back into the seat, dropping his gun and the gasoline to the floor of the car. He throws an arm around Ghoul’s waist, grinning into his throat. “Did y’ see his face, Ghoulie?”

Ghoul’s laughing too, hiccuping hysterics between clenched teeth, probably from trying to keep quiet while listening to Poison talk out of his ass at the counter. “You’re a superstar, Pois. What th’ fuck was that?”

“People ‘re easier t’ trick when they think they’re smarter than you,” Poison says, still winded from laughing so hard and brimming with adrenaline from their getaway.

“I  _know_ _,_ ” Ghoul says, poking him hard in the side. “An’ you were really, really great. ‘M talking about th’ face you were making th’ whole time.” He widens his eyes in a bug-eyed impression of Poison’s innocent expression, and Poison loses it again.

“You did th’ heavy lifting, though,” he gasps, “You’re th’ one who got all th’ stuff to th’ car without him noticing, baby.” 

Ghoul hums noncommittally, leaning into his shoulder. “But you did all th’ acting. I just stood there.”

“Fine, we’re both fucking amazing, how ‘bout that?”

“That works,” Ghoul says, grinning, hair messy and eyes playful. Poison can’t help but kiss him, catching Ghoul’s lower lip in his teeth. Ghoul just wraps an arm around the back of his neck to bring them closer and tangles his free hand in Poison’s hair.

“Enough mushy shit,” Kobra says from the passenger seat. Poison sticks his tongue out at his brother even though he can’t see it, but settles back in the seat, lacing his fingers with Ghoul’s.

“Y’ guys got all the supplies we needed, right?” Jet asks, slowing down a little now that they’re on the actual road and there’s no chance of Tommy catching up and strangling them to death.

“Yep!” Ghoul says cheerfully. “Managed t’ snag a few special treats, too. All th’ stuff we need for Motorbaby’s party.” Poison beams and grabs his sweater to kiss him again.

“Perfect.” Jet adjusts the rearview mirror slightly, eyes appearing in it as he tilts his head up to check behind them.

Poison crows. “Robbery and Fraud already and it’s not even noon!”


End file.
